


The Fluffer and the Fake Out

by NotHereNJ (efficaceous)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: BDSM, Cam boy, Healthy aftercare, Loving Husbands, M/M, OnlyFans, Smut, fluffer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:40:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29084043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/efficaceous/pseuds/NotHereNJ
Summary: Tooth rotting smut is the best way I can describe this idea that Peppaspice and I came up with.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 5
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

The tall, statuesque redhead stared down at the smaller, dark haired man kneeling before him, fully clothed at his bare feet. Ian wore nothing, just held his thick cock in his fingers, stroking it slowly to hardness. The blue eyes followed his hand from below, full lips parting in longing.

“Don’t you wish you got to taste my cum?” Ian asked him, with a rhetorical air. 

The man seated below nodded vigorously, almost slavishly, but didn’t dare speak. He kept his face up and his mouth open.

Well,” he said pleasantly, “time to start doing your job, cockwarmer.” He tried his best to sound casual, but he probably missed by a mile, because they were actually doing this. Mickey sighed, as if from relief, and immediately leaned over to undo Ian's pants.

It was time for Ian to show him his role in life. WHat he could never have.

“You never will, though. Never taste me. You’ll never feel my cum with your hands, feel this dick in any of your greedy little holes. The only thing you’ll get to do is suck me good and hard so I can go fuck someone else. All you’re good for is this.”

Below him, Mickey’s eyes had fluttered shut, long dark lashes sweeping his cheeks. His mouth lolled open, leaving the perfect opening for Ian to feed his cock in, slowly, relishing the way Mickey’s tongue pressed up immediately, giving him that littlest bit of friction with the suction, then teasing along his frenulum and the heavy vein running along the bottom of his cock. 

Mickey groaned with frustration, which made Ian pull him close, almost across his lap, and lay a good, hard smack on his ass, making him cry out as the plug jostled. “I didn't hear any complaining, did I?”

“No, Sir!”

Another smack.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, yeah, I'll be good,” Mickey whimpered. “I'll suck you until you’re hard, and then you can go fuck him and I’ll wait here. I’ll be good.” There were practically tears in his clear blue eyes.

Without any preparation, no caressing of the man’s cheek, no warning, Ian thrust in and out, the full length of his cock, trying to make the man gag. It was a game he played, could he get Mickey to gag today. It had to do with a particularly vicious thrust and some precarious timing, but he could get Mickey to vomit on his own feet. Some people were into that- there were always specific tips from streamers when Mickey puked. 

But that’s why Mickey was here, to be used and make money for Ian. 


	2. The Fake Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't give ya part 1 and make you wait a whole week for part 2.... could i?

Ian turned off the cameras, one by one, and grabbed a towel to wipe the dried cum from his abs. Ian always needed a minute to come back to earth after a scene like this, but Mickey never took it personally. To him, it was an easy job, cock drunk and then denied. Easy, the story of his life, really. 

“How many hits?” Mickey asked impatiently, clicking through the tabs.

Once Ian uncrossed his eyes, they got wide. “Damn. Double last week. And more interactions.”

“Tips?” Mickey couldn’t give two shits about who said what or made what request unless there was a price tag attached.

“Actually, sort of. We got a tip from UserStrangePlanet for $50, and a request for next time.”

“I am  _ not  _ shoving a replica globe up my ass- I fuckin’ refuse to put anything bigger than your first up there ever again!”

Ian laughed. “Nah, he was something different. Instead of me denying you my dick, he wants you to worship me from your knees.”

Mickey had to think about that one. “I mean, we basically do that shit for free….”

“Yeah and now we can do it and get paid to have a good time.”

“Any other requests?”

“Oh, you’re gonna hate this one but it’s gonna make us so much cash…”


	3. Full

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW for moderately healthy BSDSM and rope play

On the computer screen where they could both see what their viewers saw, heat rose off of Mickey’s skin in waves, sultry and languid. The air around him seemed to almost shimmer like a desert mirage. Or, perhaps, and more logically perhaps, it was merely lust that fogged up Ian’s vision and cloaked his brain, with Mickey tied up in black rope and perfect, splayed over Ian’s lap, stuffed full of his cock.

Mickey was panting, the hot gusts of breath stoppered with the spit-slick black ball gag in his mouth. His body was scorching, the heat of him so intense that it seemed like he should sizzle when Ian licked a wide, wet stripe across his collarbone. Ian imagined he could taste desperation in the salt of Mickey's sweat. Desperation was obvious, at least, in the tremble of his thighs, the arch of his spine, the tension and quiver of his muscles. The comments coming across the screen ranged from obscene, derisive, praiseful, and all of them wanting to see how much more Mickey could take. Occasionally Ian would stop and read one or two out, watch the way a different kind of flush grew on Mickey’s cheeks.

Mickey whimpered, unable to help it. The sounds came out muffled and quick and small.

Ian leaned back on the bed, lush with satisfaction. He was still mostly dressed, with only his sweatpants pushed down past his hips. Mickey was completely naked, tied up prettily and glorious.

Ian watched, rapt, as Mickey tiredly, shakingly, attempted to fuck himself on his cock.

He had kept Mickey like this for the better part of the past two hours while the camera ran and their viewers tipped them. He had teased Mickey, first with hands and slick tongue, then with toys that buzzed and wormed inside of him, making Mickey squirm. It was a delight to make Mickey squirm, to see the writhe of his body and the involuntary twitches of his thick, uncut cock. The noises he made were far more moving for the fact that they were limited by the gag in his mouth. Again and again, Ian brought Mickey to the very verge of cumming, and then, just as he could see Mickey tense and strain, almost slip past the point of no return, he would take all stimulation away. He would slow the touches down, perhaps, pet him and relax him, touch him everywhere except for his flushed and throbbing cock, rub him inside everywhere except for his swollen prostate. He would tease Mickey until he was a shivering ball of need, but Mickey wasn’t allowed to come. 

Now Ian had him seated on his cock, taking his time with him. He fucked him slow and easy. Their fans had picked the number, paid for it. Thirteen. Lucky thirteen. A big, round, double-digit number: in the course of two hours, Mickey had almost come thirteen times now, only to be denied when he needed it most. Mickey was trembling and worn out, tired but oh so needy. Ian revelled in his desperation.

It would probably take five minutes, at the most, to bring Mickey to the edge again. Maybe not even that. The right thrust at the right angle, an errant touch to his dick, a harsh twist to his nipples, and he’d be right there, keening and anguished for something he knew he couldn’t have. 

With his mouth stuffed full Mickey could form no words. He couldn’t even beg. He could only whine out small, animalistic sounds. He could only plead with his eyes, large and blue and glistening wet with frustration.

Mickey was so small like this, bound together, beautifully compact. He was trussed up in black satin rope like a present, like an offering. His arms were bound to his sides, his wrists bound to one another, rendering him helpless. The ropes crisscrossed in an X over his pale chest, rendering his tattoo on display. The symmetry of it was elegant. The feel of him was tight, searing with heat, split open on Ian's cock. It was almost as if Ian could contain Mickey this way, tangle him up in knots and keep him here forever.

Ian stopped moving, hips still, letting Mickey writhe upon his dick in an attempt to get more. Mickey looked wrecked already, sweat beading gently upon his skin, cheeks flushed and nipples hard, chest rising up and down with his hot, softly stifled breaths. He was so tired by now, forced flush against Ian's lap, completely impaled upon his cock. Ian’s hands splayed upon his skin, gripping and squeezing at his hips, at the soft swell of his ass. He held him in place, keeping him from getting the stimulation that he needed. Mickey’s movements were forcefully kept shallow and short, Ian’s dick doing little more for him than simply nudging at the bump of his prostate, providing him with teasing, lightning-quick flashes of sensation, not enough, nowhere near enough. He was unable to do little more than rock and squirm.

When Ian decided to move again, he fucked him at a leisurely pace, thrusting his cock up into slick, luxurious heat. His thrusts were slow and careful, pulling out barely an inch or two at a time, relishing in the drag of his cock along the tight grip of Mickey’s insides, just barely rubbing against the sensitive bundle of nerves inside of him. Mickey keened and whined, trying to raise himself up so that he could drop himself down hard onto Ian’s cock. His insides needed to be filled up so badly. Ian squeezed the flesh in his hands and prevented it, holding Mickey tightly still.

Ian’s eyes were half-lidded with pleasure. “It’s your own fault for being so sensitive,” he said. It was an observation, far from a complaint. One of his hands slid between them and he rubbed his thumb and two fingers over the slippery, flushed head of Mickey’s dick. Mickey shuddered hard, pulsing out more of his seemingly endless supply of precum, whimpering - he was close again, so quickly and so easily. Ian could feel the threat of orgasm in the pressure of Mickey’s knees and thighs squeezing against his hips. He could feel how much he wanted to come in the exquisite way Mickey’s body clenched around him, as if he were trying to hold on to Ian’s hard, thick dick inside of him. 

He slid his hand down the shaft of Mickey’s cock and squeezed cruelly, constricting him the way a cock ring would, preventing him from coming. 

“Not yet, cock slut.” Ian’s voice was sharp and authoritative. “If you come, we’ll have to start all over again, from the beginning.”

He tightened his hand when Mickey whined, attempting to thrust up into it. Ian’s other hand pushed down on Mickey’s hip, keeping him still.

“If you come now,” he said, “Maybe I’ll have to leave you for a few hours, with the cock ring and one of the big toys inside of you. I was gonna go to the gym today, maybe hit the sauna. You could learn some endurance while I’m gone.”

Mickey shook his head, body shaking as well - the first move voluntary and the second uncontrollable. His eyes were dark and shining with sheer excitement. Ian gave his cock another squeeze, much gentler this time, to feel him twitch and pulse in his hand. Mickey winced as if it hurt; Ian knew that it only felt too good, obvious from the precum that trickled down his shaft.

Mickey didn’t lose control. He trembled, but he didn’t come.

“You’re so good for me,” Ian praised him.

He rolled his hips to see Mickey shudder, to feel the tightness of his wet, slick hole fluttering around him.

Mickey was so sensitive, so responsive. This was his, Mickey’s pleasure and the denial of it. The shadow of his dark lashes against his lightly freckled cheeks, his stoppered breath, the arch of his spine, the twitch of his cock, the hot, sweet clasp of his tight and greedy hole - that all belonged to Ian.

He rocked up, fast and sharp, a direct stab into Mickey’s prostate, all swollen and sensitive for him.

Mickey moaned weakly, precum spurting out clear from the head of his dick. The sound of his moan was muffled by the black ball gag stopping up his mouth. It was just big enough to stretch his mouth sweetly open. Ian liked the sight of Mickey’s mouth with something in it. 

“Look at you,” Ian purred. “Look at how desperate you are, fucking yourself on my cock.”

Mickey was making a brave effort of it, despite the quiver of his thighs, muscles standing out in relief as he lifted himself up again. They would burn with exhaustion tomorrow, but for now he rocked himself with abandon, moving when Ian refused to, letting Ian’s cock rub in and out of him. His cheeks were bright but he made no attempt to deny how desperate he was. It would have been fruitless to hide that from the camera, anyway. It was fruitless to hide anything of himself from Ian, anymore.

“You know,” Ian said, “for someone who was so straight for so long, you certainly love having my cock shoved up your ass.”

He could say anything he wanted to Mickey. Mickey could only shudder and listen. There was no denial there, either, and what a triumph it had been, the first time, to claim Mickey Milkovich in a way that no one else had ever had him. Now Ian triumphed again and again.

Mickey’s chest arched forward, ropes around his pectorals making a pretty presentation of his nipples. They were hard and swollen from Ian’s cruel twisting and teasing, turned puffy and pink.

“Not even I could have guessed you would turn out to be such a little cockslut,” Ian said. He was amused and shamelessly aroused. “Imagine what our viewers are saying when they see you like this. Letting yourself be used for my pleasure. Your tight little hole hungry for my cock. You’re greedy for my cock inside of you, all tied up and gagged and still begging me to fuck you until you come.”

Mickey made a strangled sound in response, deep in his throat. He shook his head; with his mouth plugged up, he couldn’t say a word. With his cheeks flushed deep pink, he couldn’t lie. His dick twitched, drooling a trickle of precum, making it shiny and wet.

“How badly do you want to come, Mickey?” Ian asked him, breath hot in his ear, but still loud enough for the mic to pick up, “You feel so good around me. Your insides are so hot, and every time you get close you squeeze so nicely around my cock. I like the way you shiver. Maybe I’ll keep you like this for another hour, hm? How does that sound?”

Mickey shook his head adamantly no, shaking, bouncing on Ian’s lap, whining and whimpering through his gag. Ian rubbed a thumb over the smooth black surface, pushing it gently against Mickey’s tongue, as if encouraging him to suck.

“No?” Ian said. Mickey shook his head again, making small, pleading noises, pitched with desperation. Mickey was feverish with need, sick with it. They both knew there was a safe word, but Mickey was still game, still letting Ian run the show, literally. It made Ian feel sick, almost, a swirling feeling in the pit of his stomach and the depths of his chest, with how much Mickey trusted him.

“Ah, well. All right,” Ian conceded. “But only because you’re such a good little slut.”

He gripped Mickey by the hips, then, finally, began to fuck him in earnest. He thrust up with harsh, quick, jabbing strokes, bouncing Mickey upon his lap. He dug his fingers into the firm flesh of Mickey’s ass, loving how easily he could move and manipulate his smaller body. How he could hold Mickey and shove inside of him, pushing into all that velvety heat.

Mickey, completely bound up, was unable to do anything except take it. He moaned, wet and loud even through the gag, shuddering hard every time the head of Ian’s dick pushed against the swollen nub of his prostate.

Ian fucked him ruthlessly, voraciously. He wanted to consume him. His thrusts were brutal; as if he could tattoo his ownership inside Mickey the way his name already branded his chest. Mickey gave himself over so willingly. He allowed himself to be used, an eager little fucktoy, an instrument for pleasure. He let himself be consumed. 

Ian had claimed him for his. He didn’t need to say it. He didn’t need to tug Mickey close and whisper in his ear who he belonged to, although he did it anyway, to feel the shivers wrack through Mickey’s compact little body. But this Mickey already knew. Mickey was his, every inch of him - his desperation, his need, the bead of sweat slowly trickling down his chest, the swallow of his throat, the frenetic beat of his heart.

Mickey was jostled about so easily. His eyes and lashes glistened with the tears of frustrated desire. His throat and chest shone with sweat in the light, his cock flushed red and leaking drops of precum onto Ian’s white shirt. Ian loved to fuck him with all the lights on, so that the camera could capture the details of him, observe every reaction, catalogue every twitch and shudder. Ian grabbed at him with his hands, squeezing, snatching at him possessively. He thrust hard into him with his cock, burying himself into tightness and heat.

Mickey whimpered, looking ruined, almost not daring to hope but his expression desperately hopeful nonetheless. His eyes were nearly black with arousal. He was obviously close again, every inch of him, every muscle and nerve straining for orgasm. He could do nothing but shudder and moan weakly with every thrust to his now-over sensitised prostate. Saliva trickled from the corner of his forced-open pink mouth and his eyes rolled heavenward; he was absolutely and completely overwhelmed.

Ian took his pleasure, greedily, easily. The sight of Mickey so lost to sex and sensation made him helplessly aroused, made the dirty lust burn hot inside of his body, his own heart pounding and breath smouldering in his lungs. He rammed himself in deep, and Mickey groaned and pushed back, wanting deeper, needing it, all the while moaning like a whore. Mickey had always been like this, meeting him halfway, two thirds of the way, all the way; he wanted everything Ian could give him and then he always begged for more. He had always been miraculous, in his own way.

“Now,” Ian commanded, feeling his own orgasm cresting. The sound of his order came out low and breathy, sharp and scorched with need. “Come for me, Mickey, do it, now.”

And then he shoved up hard, both hands holding Mickey down, bodies slapping together, forcing him to sit flush against his hips, completely impaled upon his cock.

Mickey came with a guttural shout, dick twitching, spurting thick drops of semen onto Ian’s shirt. He came with shudders and cries, the sounds leaking through the gag, his body jerking, clenching and squeezing around Ian’s cock. The pleasure was so intense it was almost excruciating, and Ian felt his orgasm milked out of him, Mickey’s muscles fluttering and contracting around his cock. He watched Mickey fall apart as he filled him with his cum, watched Mickey writhe and come completely undone, while his own pleasure unspooled from where it had been wound tight in the core of his body.

Mickey moaned, low and long, a sound of pure sensuality. He gasped and his body shook with uncontrollable tremors, and then, with a deep-bone shudder, he was clenching around Ian once more.

Ian realised, with a dizzying surge of lust, that Mickey was coming again, a smaller orgasm tripping on the heels of the first, at the sensation of being filled with Ian’s cum.

He reached between them and grabbed Mickey’s flushed and twitching cock, stroking him through his second orgasm. His palm was lubricated with Mickey’s precum and the semen that he’d already spent. “You’re such a filthy slut,” Ian breathed, ever so fond. ”That’s it, go on and let go for me.”

He stroked Mickey until Mickey was whimpering and trying to wriggle away. Mickey shook his head, eyes wide and pleading; it was far too much. Ian held onto him tight, one hand on his hip, his own dick snug still in the warm clasp of Mickey’s body. Mickey’s dick was flushed red and raw-looking, twitching in Ian’s hand. It was surely oversensitive. He stroked Mickey until Mickey was actually nearly crying, and then until Ian could see tears drip down his cheeks, until Mickey was begging for mercy through his gag, and Ian kept touching him, kept stroking until Mickey shuddered again and his dick spurted with one final pathetic dribble that was more precum than anything else. 

Mickey collapsed on him afterwards, languid and boneless against Ian’s chest. He was warm and panting where he lay, a sweaty, trembling mess. His strength had been entirely sapped and replaced by a gelatinous sort of exhaustion. Ian reached behind Mickey’s head and gently undid his gag. It was wet with saliva. Mickey stretched his jaw, flexing the aching muscles, sticking out his pink tongue. With his hands still bound behind him, arms still bound tight to his torso, he raised his head and nuzzled against Ian’s throat. He pressed kisses up his jaw, until their mouths finally found one another. They kissed, open-mouthed and sloppy the way that kisses can be when both parties are uncoordinated with weariness and bliss, their tongues and lips gently rubbing and caressing with no particular purpose. Neither of them found it in them to care.

Ian reached out, flicking off the live recording. Now they were alone.

“You,” Mickey said, after a moment, the word pressed against the corner of Ian’s mouth, “are a sick fuck.”

“Mm, and you love it,” Ian hummed with approval. The feeling was mutual. It pleased him when he and Mickey were on the same page. He began the slow, worshipful process of untying Mickey, rubbing feeling back into his limbs, pressing his lips to any makrs on the pale skin, riding it out with him,

Then they'd count the profits.


End file.
